


A Permanent Position

by mutedskies



Category: Original Work
Genre: Community: trope_bingo, Dubious Consent, Hypnotism, M/M, Mind Control, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-04 22:37:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13374510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mutedskies/pseuds/mutedskies
Summary: When Michael answers the advertisement for a job in a remote corner of Northumberland, his new employment takes an unexpected turn...





	A Permanent Position

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the trope "Mind Control" (Wild Square) in Trope Bingo Round 9.

Getting away from London and its racket and choking sulphurous smogs had seemed like a good idea to Michael Greaves when he had written in reply to the advertisement. He had various reasons to want to leave the capital behind him, but now, as he climbed down from the farmer’s cart at the end of a rutted country road in the wilds of Northumberland, miles away from the nearest railway station, he was beginning to have his doubts.

Loftus Grange – his destination – had not been designed to reassure him. It was a small manor house that had been either been built or rebuilt during a period when the Gothic had been all the rage. In the dark, it loomed over him and he was sure he saw turrets on the roof above. He wondered warily what it would be like inside – unrefurbished and damp, no doubt, with odd noises in the night that gave rise to endless ghost stories that drove any staff away.

However, when he shook off such thoughts and steeled himself to knock at the heavy wooden door, it was opened by an elderly butler who had a mild voice and manner – not in the least sinister – and he was ushered into a well-lit hallway. Michael had to laugh at himself for his wild fancies.

He was, admittedly, curious to meet his employer, Sir Anthony Randall, an antiquarian who had put the notice in the newspaper for a secretary. Given the remoteness of the estate and the frail family retainer, Michael had been picturing a rather aged scholar when the image was dispelled by the man himself.

“Is that Greaves?” The voice was a rich, well-modulated one, and not in the least querulous or elderly. Civilised, but used to command. “Send him in, Farrow.”

Michael made his way into what proved to be the library, with full bookcases lining the walls, and found his new employer sitting at the desk. Sir Anthony rose to great him and walked across to him to shake his hand. He was somewhere in his mid to late forties, taller than Michael, with his fair hair barely showing any grey.

“Splendid,” he said with a smile. “I was beginning to fear you would not make it. Welcome to Loftus Grange. I trust you will be happy here – it can be so difficult to find good secretaries in this remote corner of the country.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Michael, shaking the hand that was offered him. “I trust I shall.”

 

Loftus Grange was a house of contrasts. Its master was well-educated, urbane, and was writing a book on the history of the local area, but his library was full of the strangest volumes, full of superstition and arcane law – even ancient tomes that purported to be spell books and contained elaborate drawings of pentagrams and were written in unfamiliar languages.

“The local people here used to be intensely superstitious,” Sir Anthony said when he caught Michael exploring the library. “I have had to devote a considerable portion of the book to such topics – and I must admit, I find it fascinating in itself. But this, young Greaves, is the consequence of your coming in at Chapter Ten. You shall have to read through the earlier chapters to acquaint yourself with the subject.”

Michael promised to do so, although there was something about the books he had been fingering that left him on edge. His own prejudice and superstition, he supposed in amusement, since Sir Anthony was only using them for scholarly purposes and it was not as if Michael believed in such powers in any case. Yet he felt there was something oppressive about the library – even about the Grange itself, comfortably and homely as most areas of it were.

After Sir Anthony had left him, Michael closed the book and shivered.

 

Some weeks later, by which time they had reached Chapter Twelve, Sir Anthony went out to see some ruins for his research, taking Michael with him on the long walk there and back again, though they paused for a midday meal before they resumed dictation in the library once more. However, having kept Michael scribbling rapidly for the past hour or so, Sir Anthony finally paused and told him to sit back for a while as he needed to try out some paragraphs aloud.

Glad of the temporary break, Michael leant back into the chair, watching Sir Anthony standing between the desk and the window as he related one of the more involved tales of the local area he had found, about a former lord of the manor leading a Royalist battalion in the Civil War. They had made their way across the countryside, and Sir Anthony began to try and phrase and rephrase an incident that had occurred while they were looking for a suitable place to camp for the night.

His voice was as measured and as mellifluous as ever, drawing Michael in, even though he’d taken down an outline the day before. The effect was inevitably a little soporific. Coupled with the exercise he’d taken this morning, the meal, the hour of dictation, and the warmth of the room, he grew drowsy, leaning his head against the side of his chair. Sir Anthony sat down on the desk, seemingly oblivious of Michael in his concentration on the story. As he spoke, he took out his watch and began idly swinging it on his chain. It caught the light as he did so, and Michael found his eyes drawn by its movements back and forth. It was only too easy for Michael to let his thoughts wander, lulled by the motion and Sir Anthony’s long tale. It had to be admitted, he thought vaguely, that the man really did have the most marvellous voice.

Sir Anthony was talking again about the Royalist Captain and his problems – he must find a place to stop, for they had been on the march all day and the men were _tired_. They must find somewhere to _sleep_. Michael gave a faint grunt in sympathy for their predicament, it matching his own as he sank further into his chair.

“They were so very, very tired,” murmured Sir Anthony, his voice washing over Michael like a wave now, all other thought being carried away in its wake. “Indeed, they were like to drop where they stood. As are you, too, my poor young fellow, I think. It has been a long day. Yes, let yourself rest a little. Just look at the watch – allow it to carry you away. It’s such a fascinating little piece, let me tell you of its history –”

It didn’t seem strange; it felt only as if this was something Michael had been expecting somehow. The remaining tension in his shoulders eased, and he let out a breath while his eyelids lowered. His mind was befogged with drowsiness and, after all, it _was_ so very pleasant to look at the watch; Sir Anthony was right. He let his eyes follow it; his thoughts drifting away into the ether. Sir Anthony was still speaking, but Michael barely registered the words any more – only the soothing tone as it seemed to wrap itself around his mind like rich velvet, smothering everything else.

Michael gave a sigh, blinking again at the effort it took to keep his eyes open, but he couldn’t look away from the watch, still swinging back and forth; each arc seeming to pull him deeper into this dream-like state.

“Yes, you’re so tired,” said Sir Anthony softly. “So very tired now – falling under my spell – but it’s what you want, isn’t it? Such a pleasurable feeling.”

Michael gaze was glazing over, his eyelids heavier still and he couldn’t have moved if he’d wanted to – his limbs were leaden weights sinking into the chair beneath him. He didn’t want to, however. Sir Anthony was right; it was a wonderful feeling. He was almost melting into the chair – melting and floating away at the same moment. 

“Good,” said Sir Anthony, more firmly. “Very good. But, you know, it will feel even better when you fall completely into my power – when you let yourself go – and you must now, you must. You can’t keep your eyes open, can you?”

Michael gave a grunt, eyelids fluttering.

“Quite,” said Sir Anthony. “Now – _sleep_.”

There was no way Michael could ignore the command. His body sagged into the chair while, his mind tumbled away, down and down and down –

“Deeper and deeper,” said Sir Anthony’s voice from somewhere a hundred miles away, but it was still as compelling and beautiful as ever. “Until you can fall no further – until you are utterly mine.”

All that was left of Michael’s will, of any sort of rational thought, was no more than a leaf afloat on a vast lake, and that drifting out of sight now.

“Good,” said Sir Anthony lightly, and put down the watch. “Excellent. Soon you will be able to assist me in _all_ my work.” He smiled for a moment as Michael failed to respond, lost in a blissfully mindless trance. “Well, that will take a little more time – although not too long, I feel. You fell so easily, after all. Perhaps you have indeed by sent by destiny.”

He laughed and then moved across, studying Michael in the chair and then reached out a hand to him, taking his chin in his hand, raising his head a little and then releasing him, watching Michael’s head droop onto his chest. He gave no other reaction, no longer capable of it. His eyelids were all but shut and his eyes glazed. His lips parted slightly and he was pale but for a faint flush on his cheeks. It was no pretence. Sir Anthony nodded to himself, and continued:

“Well, for the moment, all that you need to remember is that you work for me. The rest will come later. And since you work for me, you must obey me, yes? You will obey me. I believe you will find it is only what you want to do in any case. Do you hear me?”

Michael after a long moment managed a heavy nod.

“My dear Greaves,” said Sir Anthony. “When I give you an order, you say ‘yes, master’.”

That was harder work still, but Michael said, eventually, slurring the words, “Yes, master.”

“There’s a good fellow. I can see we are going to get along very well indeed.”

It seemed like such a glorious promise to Michael in his present state that he gave a faint moan of pleasure.

Sir Anthony laughed. “Yes, quite,” he said.

 

Michael woke slowly, emerging unwillingly from what must have been a peculiarly sweet dream, before it evaporated out of memory’s reach. He registered instead the reality of what he had done – falling asleep in the study while his employer talked – he sat upright, his face heated in embarrassment. “Sir – I apologise – I don’t know what came over me! The warmth, I suppose – and the walk –”

“And my prosing on, no doubt,” added Sir Anthony and then held up a hand as Michael was about to protest. “No, no. I walked you all the way out to that old priory, and then talked at you for hours on end – what other result could one expect?”

Michael apologised again anyway, determined he would never do so again. He was only lucky, he thought, that Sir Anthony was a reasonable man. His last employer would have fired him on the spot.

“No, no,” Sir Anthony murmured, and then pulled out his watch to look at the time.

Michael, for reasons he could not explain, found his eye instantly drawn to it. It was almost as if, for a moment he felt an echo of the dream, his mind beginning to unwind and loosen and –

Sir Anthony put the watch away again and stood. Michael blinked in confusion, and then shook himself.

“Go on,” said Sir Anthony, who was biting back a smile, perhaps amused at Michael’s mishap. “Go to your room – or out for a bit of air, whatever you please. I’ll see you later. We have much to do, I promise you that. Now, go!”

Michael went, but he felt an unexpected thrill of anticipation go through him at Sir Anthony’s words. _We have much to do_ , he thought, as he walked away down the corridor, the sentence echoing in his mind like a mantra. _We have much to do_. He found he could hardly wait for the resumption of that work. It must be his destiny.


End file.
